A Christmas Kiss (28 page)

“It's true, me lord,” nodded the woman. “I was that surprised, I can tell you, when I'd found she'd gone. Though who she could've found to take her to Launceston through all that snow I can't imagine.”

“She went to Launceston?” Philip asked tensely. “Are you sure?”

“Well, we couldn't say for sure where she went. I told her there was no one we knowed who'd be fool enough to go off on an errand like that,” Mrs. Fern explained.

Philip sank into the chair the innkeeper still held for him. The sense of anticipation which had buoyed up his spirits on the ride now evaporated, and he was left benumbed in mind and body. He shook his head and tried to think purposefully. “Are you sure it is Miss Pennington of whom you speak?” he asked.

“There was only one young lady came here last night. Must've been her.”

“A slim, dark-haired lady with grey eyes?”

“That's the one,” the innkeeper said with assurance.

“And you have no idea whom she may have hired to drive her to Launceston?”

“No, me lord, none. Why, if Sam'l wouldn't take her, there's no one within miles who would!”

“Samuel?” asked his lordship. “Who is he? Was he here last evening?”

“Comes in every evening, does Sam'l. Wouldn't surprise me none if he come in tonight! A bang-up driver is Sam'l, old as he is, and knows all the roads hereabouts.”

“Did he talk to Miss Pennington? Are you sure he didn't take her to Launceston after all? Perhaps she persuaded him.”

“Couldn't have. He was still here after the lady was gone. And as for talking, it ain't likely. It's hard to get a word out o' him. Just sits and drinks his brew, with hardly a word to anyone.”

“I see. Nevertheless, I should like to question him. You say he may come in tonight?”

“Wouldn't surprise me a bit, me lord.”

“Even in this weather?”

“He only lives a few steps down the lane. If you're wishful to see him, I'll bundle up and get him for you.”

“Thank you, but if you give me his direction, I'll go myself,” Philip said rising.

“I'll not hear of it, me lord,” said Mrs. Fern in motherly solicitude. “Your coat is damp, your hair is wet, and look at those boots—soaked through they are! You'll not stir from this inn, if I've anything to say. You'll sit here while I get the fire going. A rum toddy and a bit o' food's what you need now.”

“Be still, woman,” muttered her husband. “Watch how you talk to his lordship! But there's good sense in what she says, me lord.”

“Yes, there is. Thank you, ma'am. Well, then, Mr. Fern, if you'll bring your friend Samuel to me, I shall be most grateful.”

At Gyllford, the Christmas dinner was promising to be an awkward occasion. The snow would keep the neighbors who usually gathered for the occasion close to their own firesides, making the meal almost a family affair. Clarissa knew that Philip's absence would be sorely felt, and the mystery of the diamonds and Evalyn's disappearance would hang like a cloud over the evening's proceedings. But one shining bit of joyous news would help her to face the dinner with a light heart—Philip was in love and, with any luck, would be married soon. She knew she should not mention the business to a soul, but she longed to share the news with Gervaise. As Christmas afternoon wore on, she felt she must find him and tell him, or she would burst. Edward and Martha had gone to the nursery to play with the twins and their new Christmas toys; Reggie and Marianne were playing billiards with Sally and Jamie. Clarissa had a good idea where Gervaise was to be found.

She peeped into the library. There he was in a wing chair before the fire, a handkerchief spread over his face, fast asleep. With a sigh of frustration, she turned to let herself quietly out of the room, too shy to wake him up with such news. But just as she put her hand on the knob, he stirred.

“Hmm? Wha'? Who is it?” he mumbled, pulling his handkerchief from his face and blinking.

“I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Gervaise dear. But I'm glad you woke up. I … I've been dying to tell you something that I think will please you enormously.”

Gervaise had been about to yawn, but the expression on her face caught his interest completely and brought him fully awake. “Well, then, no need to apologize. Sit here and tell me at once.”

“I know I shouldn't be telling you about it as yet. It's all so indefinite. Besides, I'm sure Philip would not want me to reveal …” And her voice trailed off guiltily.

Gervaise looked at her askance. “If it is something which Philip would not want you to tell me, then by all means don't. It's not like you, Clarissa, to want to betray a confidence.”

“Oh, pooh. Don't moralize at me, Gervaise. I've always confided in you, as you well know. It wouldn't be the first time I've told you something I shouldn't. It's probably very wrong of me to talk about this, but it is such good news, and you deserve to know it, if anyone does.”

“Well, you've thoroughly aroused my curiosity. I would no more stop you now than I would forego the plum pudding tonight, though both indulgences will weigh heavily on my conscience. So proceed with your news, my girl, and don't keep me waiting any longer.”

“Oh, Gervaise,” Clarissa cried, released by his words from her guilt and flinging her arms about his neck, “Philip is in love! With any luck at all, he will soon be married!”

Gervaise, who had never, in the many years he had known her, taken Clarissa in his arms, was for a moment so stupefied that he let his arms remain limply in his lap. Then, as the awareness slowly came over him that his dream of many years was coming true—that it was truly Clarissa who had embraced him so impetuously—he put his arms around her and held her close. “Oh, my dear,” he whispered, “is it really happening? Are you to be mine at last?”

Clarissa, suddenly becoming aware of the impropriety of her behavior, reluctantly withdrew from his embrace. Smiling shyly, she said, “I think so, Gervaise. If all goes well with Philip's romance, I see no reason why we can't be married …” She flicked a glance at his face, the color rising in her own, as she added, “… soon.”

Before she could resist, she was swept into another embrace, and it was some minutes before a sense of the proprieties was awakened in either of them. Finally, Clarissa murmured, “Oh, Gervaise, no. Someone may come in. We must be careful not to set tongues wagging yet awhile. Philip is not yet able to give us any assurances.…”

Gervaise chuckled. “Miss Pennington is leading him a merry dance, eh?”

Clarissa stared. “Gervaise! How did you guess—?”

“I have eyes, m'dear, I have eyes. There's not much I miss. I've known for days that he was taken with her tail-over-top. And she with him, if I'm any judge of women. I hope you're pleased with his choice, for two people more suited to each other I never did see, despite the fact that she's so young.”

“I'm more than pleased. I quite loved her like a sister before I ever dreamed she might turn out to be one.”

“Then we've nothing to worry about,” Gervaise chortled.

“Don't fly into the boughs too soon,” Clarissa cautioned. “He's mishandled the whole matter—my fault, I'm afraid. I'll tell you the whole silly story one day. Now we must hope that he can find her and persuade her to forgive him.”

“I refuse to be damped. Didn't Shakespeare say that love will find a way? Well, if he didn't he should have, for it will, nine times out of ten.”

They left the library soon after, to find Nancy, Annette, and an under-footman waiting for Clarissa in the hallway. “Could we see ye alone, ma'am?” Nancy asked, with a sidelong glance at Gervaise.

Gervaise bowed to Clarissa. “I'm off to dress for dinner, my dear. Can't tell you how I'm looking forward to the Christmas goose. Your cook has a way with them that is positively mouthwatering.” And off he went with a little dance in his step that brought a sparkle to Clarissa's eyes as she watched him go.

The tale unfolded by the servants needed much repetition and amplification before its full import was clear to Clarissa. So overjoyed was she at the solution to the mystery of the diamonds and the realization that no one she cared for was involved in a theft that her disapproval of Joseph's and Annette's transgression in using a guest room as a rendezvous was softened.

“You've all behaved in a most irregular and reprehensible manner,” she told them at the end of the interview, “and I fully expect that I shall never find you involved in such goings-on again! However, you have been a help to us in the end, so I shall let bygones be bygones.”

It was clear to Clarissa that something would have to be done about Sally and that the others would have to be told the truth, if only to clear the cloud of suspicion that hung over Evalyn. She looked at the trio standing ill at ease before her and said sternly, “I've been thinking that this is not quite the time to do anything about this matter. It is Christmas Day, after all. And tomorrow is Boxing Day, which I know you and the other servants have so been looking forward to. Nothing should disturb that day. Therefore, I would be obliged if nothing of this is said. I will take no action until the day after. In the meantime, I trust that I can rely on your discretion.”

“Lord Gyllford already cautioned us, ma'am,” Joseph said. “You can count on us to keep our lips shut.”

The Christmas dinner turned out to be more delightful than Clarissa dared to expect. The evening started with Jamie's arrival at her bedroom door, stating his intention to escort his aunt to the drawing room. As they walked down the hallway, he asked if Philip had told her about their interview. She nodded and gave him an embarrassed apology. He teased her for being “goosish” and for thinking that he was ready to get himself “buckled” to any female. They laughed heartily over the whole silly pass. “But it shall all end well, when Father marries Miss Pennington in my place,” Jamie said, expecting to give his aunt a pleasant shock. Her surprise, however, was only caused by his having guessed.

“How did you know?” she squeaked. “Did Philip tell you?”

“I guessed it, finally. I must have been a complete cawker not to have seen it before.”

“I was worse!” Clarissa admitted. “I never guessed at all. Philip had to tell me himself!”

Their high spirits were evident from the moment they entered the drawing room, and Clarissa beamed at everyone so joyously and laughed at all the pleasantries so merrily that good will soon spread to everyone in the room. Only Sally felt uncomfortable. Not only was she bored to death with Philip absent, but Clarissa, who was spreading Christmas warmth everywhere in the room, seemed to turn cold every time she looked at Sally's face.

At the Bull the fire was crackling in the grate. Philip had surrendered his coat to the ministrations of Mrs. Fern and sat sipping his second toddy when Mr. Fern returned with Samuel. The taciturn old man stood before Philip and surveyed him with a complete lack of concern for Philip's elevated rank. Philip felt that the old, bird-like eyes were taking his measure, and he rose and shook Samuel's hand and thanked him for coming out on such a night.

“Tain't nothing,” Sam'l said.

Philip urged him into a chair, and the innkeeper gave him a tankard of ale. “I understand that a young lady asked you last night to drive her to Launceston,” Philip began.

The old man nodded.

“Did she find someone else to take her?”

“No, sir,” Sam'l said.

“Can you be sure?” Philip asked him urgently. “How else could she have left here?”

“In a carriage. A private carriage.”

“Come on, Sam'l,” the innkeeper said in annoyance, “where'd she find a private carriage?”

“Came here last night, full o' little tykes. You gave 'em dinner, remember?” Sam'l said to the innkeeper in a tone of superiority. The old man's eyes gleamed with pleasure at having shown a better memory than the younger Mr. Fern.

“What's this?” asked Philip, leaning forward. “There was another party here last evening?”

“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Fern. “A very big family, it was. They stopped here for a bite o' supper.”

“But they bespoke the private parlor,” Mr. Fern objected. “I don't think the young lady even saw 'em.”

“She did, too,” Sam'l said decisively. “Played with their little girl.”

“Sam'l, you're an old fool. So what if she played with their brat,” said the innkeeper. “She wouldn't go off with 'em. They were strangers. She was a lady. A lady wouldn't go off with strangers.”

“Don't know if she was a lady,” Sam'l said. “Don't know if they was strangers. She went off with them. Saw her.”

“She went off in the carriage with this family?” Philip asked urgently. “Are you sure, man?”

Sam'l merely nodded. Philip turned to the innkeeper. “Did you get their name?”

“No, me lord, I never did. Did you, Mrs. Fern?”

“No. All I did was bring in a couple of trays to 'em.”

“But
you
know it, don't you, old man?” Philip said to Sam'l with a smile. “You don't miss very much, do you?”

“Didn't get their name, but I could find 'em, right enough,” the old man said to Philip with a twinkle.

“How?”

“Can't live too far from here, or they wouldn't've left so late in all that snow. The mother had red hair. The father called 'er his Irish puss. Someone around 'ere 'll know a big family like that with a red-headed Irish mother.” And he lifted his tankard and took a deep draft, as if to recover from the effort of that long speech.

Philip grinned. “I knew I could count on you, old man. Come then, let's go and find them.”

The old man cocked his head and eyed Philip with an expression that mixed amusement with disdain. “You young'uns are all alike,” he cackled, “'specially when y're chasing a filly. Makes yer think-box stop working proper.”